


The Play's the Thing

by jewelianna88



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewelianna88/pseuds/jewelianna88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shakespeare AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Play's the Thing

I’m not saying there was nothing wrong. I just didn’t think you’d ever get tired of me.

JC was out of ink, and it was a travesty because the words-- the words flew from his mind like birds from a cage, desperate for a life more grand than anything that had ever been in the realm of possibility before. It was, he thought, a crime against nature that he had no more ink with which to trace the words down before they were gone, over the horizon, leaving nothing but the memory of what could have been a masterpiece.

Swinging down the ladder of the loft, then, JC tugged on his boots and thundered down the stairs to the main floor of the playhouse, where the sounds of swords clanging and clanking danced through the air to tickle his ears like music.

“JC,” someone called, and he groaned, for the voice was low and deep, belonging only to one person in the theater. Lance Bass, who JC had hoped would be so preoccupied with the ongoing rehearsal that he wouldn’t see JC sneaking out the back door.

“Where is the next scene JC? You promised it to me today, and it is nearly dusk.” Indeed, the sun glowed a pinkish rose over the London chimneys, cutting through the smoke on the unseasonably cool May evening. JC loitered, one foot on the threshold, wondering what the reaction would be were he to run without answering.

Never a particularly brave man, JC turned with what he hoped was a sweet smile on his face, trying to look reassuring. “I’ve run out of ink. As soon as I run to fetch some, the scene will be complete. You won’t be sorry you waited,” he promised, waving his hands around until they caught on a loose string from his shirtsleeve. “It is but the grandest scene yet in the play, nay in any play.”

Lance rolled his eyes, unconvinced. “You promised me that of the last scene, you know,” but he looked more at ease. “I’ve some ink in my office that you may use, provided the pages are completed by sundown.”

“Aye and they will be.” With a careful glance around the backstage, JC noted they were alone. Boldly, he pressed a kiss onto the curve of Lance’s cheek, which was flushed with the exertion of his afternoon play-fighting. Lance responded with a quick kiss of his own, mouth warm on JC’s chapped lips, tongue quick to soothe their aching ridges. Lance was a beautiful kisser, JC thought for perhaps the thousandth time. He always felt graceful and precious when kissed by Lance. They broke with a sigh and a few soft pecks before stepping away. “Back to your practices,” JC said, noting the gentler look in Lance’s eyes.

“Will you be needing Chris, then, in the next scene, or shall I send him home?” Poor Christopher, with his high pitched voice, acted the maiden in each and every play, forced to sit and watch the swordplay on days in which his scenes were not being rehearsed.

“Let the poor man go home to his wife, so that he not begin to think he’s actually a lady.” They shared a grin and another quick kiss before JC ducked back up the stairs to Lance’s office, then climbed the ladder to his loft to finish the pages for the day.

**

They opened to a full house, for the plague and the rain had kept people away from the playhouse for the better part of April. The yard was jammed to the railings, and as JC peeked through the curtains, he felt his heart rush into his chest.

“They’ll be calling for your name in Windsor, soon,” Justin said, clapping him on the shoulder. JC let the curtain fall back into place and stepped into the wings. His costume was a grandiose creation of satin and brocade, outlandish for his role as the king in this tragic love story of a prince who died in battle before coming home to his bride, forcing her to marry his brother, a vile character. A tragedy all around, for the bride had been loving another boy on the side, a stable boy who kills himself, unnoticed by practically all. It was, JC thought, a perfect example of how the acts of the upper class trickled down to affect even the most unfortunate in London and beyond, yet the consequences of their actions were barely ever noticed.

With the call of the trumpets, the opening scene began, and Joey stepped out in his knightly armor to begin the play. JC watched with restless anticipation as the story unfolded before him, just as he had pictured it.

**

Two days later, they were still selling to a capacity crowd, much to Lance’s happiness. He was the money behind the operations at the Black Lion Theater, purchased two years ago from a bankrupt thespian who’d stayed on as an actor simply for love of the art. Christopher had never held bitterness toward Lance for buying the building and franchise; quite the opposite, he seemed grateful to be rid of his inherited financial worries and able to focus more deeply on the craft of acting.

Still, their closure during the month of April had hurt the pocketbooks dearly, and Lance’s investors were breathing down his neck to quickly prepare another play for curtain.

“We could do a repeat,” Joey offered, as the five of them sat on the stage, in pretense of rehearsing. “Something from five years ago that no one would remember. Or a revue of our most popular scenes. JC could piece them together, and narrate for us.”

Grimly, Lance shook his head. “They are calling for a comedy,” he said, and the actors balked. The Black Lion Players were experts at the tragedy of love, life, and politics. There had not been a comedy performed on this stage since Lance had purchased it two years prior.

All eyes fell to JC then, who took time playing with a hole in his stocking. Finally, with a sigh, he admitted “I do not have a hand for writing comedy.”

Justin, always quick to defend, said “But you do! You make us laugh daily, on stage and off of it.”

“That is common place laughter. The audience at a comedy looks for wit, for irony. I have none of that in me. My mind is only suited for love, for death and despair. For tragedy.”

None could argue with that, though Lance did try to cheer him by saying “But you write the best tragedies of any poet in the city and beyond.”

JC shrugged, though the compliment pleased him greatly. “What then, are we to do?”

“We could, perhaps, speak to another playwright.” Chris didn’t look pleased at the prospect, but offered the option nonetheless. “The Savoy Company has a young lad who is rumored to be quite good.”

“Young Carter,” Joey nodded. “My sister has quite an affection for his floppy blonde hair.”

“Your sister has affection for men of any hairstyle,” Justin snorted, causing Joey to shove hard at his shoulder ‘till he rolled on the ground with a painful ‘oaf.’ “I jest, I jest. It is a good idea”

“Are we in agreement, then?” Lance asked, staring around the circle of five. “I will approach this Carter to see if he might be persuaded to write a play for us.”

“How will you go about persuading him, if we have no coin?” Joey asked, but Lance only smiled.

“I have my ways,” he said. JC smiled too, but not quite so confidently. He didn’t like the idea that he was about to be replaced in the theater, but more so, he was afraid of the gleam in Lance’s eye that said something was not quite right.

**

Young Nicholas Carter turned out to be not so young at all, but older than Justin and just as tall. He was as broad as Joseph, as soft spoken as Lance, and laughed as loudly as Chris. Lance escorted him on a tour of the theater, letting the others spy on them from between the curtains as he walked Nicholas through the rows of empty seats.

“What do you think?” Chris whispered, pinching JC’s side. JC pouted, rubbing the sore spot, eyes never leaving his lover and their prospective author.

“I think that the accommodations are just as good here as at the Savoy,” he answered. “I don’t know what Lance thinks he will accomplish by giving this tour.”

Justin grinned beside him, bouncing around on the balls of his feet. “I think it is more what Lance will do when they go into his office to discuss the details that will be convincing.”

Joey smacked the back of Justin’s head roughly, though they were all three chuckling. JC felt his tongue grow thick in his mouth, hard to swallow that bitter thought. Was Lance, then, the kind of man who would sleep with any author who kept his theater profitable? For months they had been enjoying a pleasant relationship, enough to grant JC inspiration for a dozen volumes of sonnets that he kept tucked under his mattress and read aloud only to Lance and only when sated with mead or ale.

JC chewed at his bottom lip and watched the casual way Lance rested a hand on Nicholas’s shoulder as they walked back down to the floor of the theater, and up the steps to the stage. Behind the curtain, the actors scurried to appear busy, so that by the time Lance and Nick appeared in the wings, they would have no inclination that they were being watched.

After introductions, during which JC brooded in the corner and offered only a curt nod of hello, Lance escorted Nicholas’s up the rickety staircase. Justin took the opportunity to make a crude gesture with his hips, which sent Chris and Joey into fits of laughter. JC’s heart caught in this throat. As the others left to find drink at the nearby tavern, JC slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor, listening carefully to the creak of floorboards beneath his feet, the quiet murmurs of voices behind the door to Lance’s office.

The door wasn’t fully closed, and as JC approached, he could see inside to where Lance and Nicholas both perched on the worn sofa along the far wall. Lance’s hand was on Nicholas’s knee, but he quickly dropped it when JC cleared his throat, poised in the doorway, unsure if he should boldly step in or run away. It seemed that decision was on his plate quite often recently.

“Can I help you, JC?” Lance asked, and JC felt like a fool, for he knew what was going on here. Lance raised an eyebrow as they stared at each other, not worrying about the confusion that played across Nicholas’s face.

JC through for a moment, but even a poet eventually ran out of words. Sadly, he shook his head. “I was going to invite you to the tavern, to look over the first scene for a new play. But I can see you are busy.”

Lance glance at Nicholas from the corner of his eyes and smiled a bit, something a bit wistful that made JC think maybe Lance did want to go with him, but stayed with Nicholas out of propriety’s sake. They needed his play, after all. “Perhaps tomorrow,” Lance said longingly, and JC nodded, trying to look content with that but not getting much past a sniffle of regret.

“Tomorrow, then.” With a pointed glance in Nicholas’s direction, JC pulled the door closed and walked back down the stairs with clenched fists. Outside, the rain had begun again, drenching him to his skin as he walked past the door to the pub where his friends sat, all the way home to a chilly room above a law office, surrounded by poems and plays written for a man who was currently in the arms of another, all in the name of the almighty quid.

**

JC woke to incessant knocking, rousing him from a deep, dreamless slumber. Outside his door, standing awkwardly on the small landing, was Lance.

“I thought you might be at my home,” he said, and JC struggled to bring his mind awake. The events of the day rushed back to him as waves upon the shore, washing away the immediate elation at seeing Lance, leaving behind only a sour taste of dread.

He stepped aside to let Lance enter, righting a chair so that they might both sit. Lance perched on it awkwardly, crossing his legs first one way, then the other, before planting his feet on the floor and leaning his elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

Cross now, JC drew his feet up upon the bed where he sat, tucking his cold toes under the covers. “I wasn’t sure that you would be returning home alone,” he said with a defiant lift of his chin. He may have been weeping for the loss of true love only hours before, but JC would rather die than have Lance know that. There was, as always, the matter of a man’s pride.

Lance looked away, with the good sense to be ashamed for his actions. “You know that I had no choice in the matter,” he said.

“In life there are nothing but choices,” JC spat back at him. “Would you really whore yourself for the sake of a play?”

“Is that not what you do each time you come to my bed?”

The retort clipped JC painfully, causing him to curl tighter into himself. He wrapped his arms around his shins and buried his face in his knees. Surely, Lance did not think that JC had been giving himself only for the sake of his plays. “I love you,” he whispered, “Aye, as any one man has truly loved another, so do I love you now, you doghearted lout.”

Lance squirmed in his chair and, giving up on finding comfort from the hard wooden seat, tumbled forward onto the bed, where he could pry apart JC’s fingers and find his face. With the soft hands of the upper class, he tilted JC’s chin until they were looking eye to eye. “I’m sorry. What I do to woo Nicholas into our company is only for you, you know.” JC scoffed, but Lance jiggled his chin when JC tried look away. “Aye, for without the coin from the investors, we will be unable to perform your marvelous acts of tragedy. We need Nicholas to write us a comedy, so that you may be able to continue your work as London’s premier playwright.”

“There are other investors,” JC countered, but his heart had already melted. Only Lance would be able to convince JC that infidelity was for his own good.

Lance kissed him lightly, a brush of dry lips upon JC’s mouth, like a feather or paper might feel. “Tell me that you understand. It is, after all, only a temporary situation. If I could have it another way, I would.”

JC wished that, instead, Lance had proclaimed his love, but it would do. He allowed Lance to kiss him again, this time with a wet open mouth that was not at all beautiful. It did not even feel like an apology.

“Come home with me,” Lance begged, but JC shook his head. It was late, and the skies still shed their raindrop tears.

“Stay here.”

Lance acquiesced, pausing to drop his boots and outer layers to the floor before climbing under the heavy blankets. His hands reached lower, and JC let him, all the while pretending that nothing had changed.

**

There were some complications, of course, in persuading Nicholas to come to work for them. He was already indebted three plays to the Savoy Company, and their owner, a man who was known only as Lord Richardson, was not inclined to depart with such a valuable commodity.

Again, the players watched from backstage, a bit of role reversal as the action for the day was carried out in the yard between the theater owner and Lord Richardson. Lance stood more than a full head below Lord Richardson, yet answered his with the authority of a man twice his size.

“You cannot have him,” Richardson blasted with the accent of the North Country that was looked down upon by much of London society. “You’ve got your own playwright, there’s no need for you to go poking your nose in my storehouse.”

“Aye, but if he comes willingly, then who am I to pass up the opportunity for a good comedy?” Lance countered. “I’m sorry, Richardson, but you haven’t a leg to stand on. The boy can write for whomever he pleases.”

“He owes me three works, and I’ll be damned if he’s writing drivel for your company before he’s fulfilled his debt to me.” Richardson’s hands clenched into white knuckled fists at his sides, one gripped on the hilt of his sword. Lance touched his own sidepiece with equal warning.

“I know nothing of his debt to you,” Lance said in a deep even voice, laced through with threats that needn’t be spoken. JC had modeled many villains after this side of Lance, for he was truly a force to be reckoned. Fascinated, he watched as his lover ever so carefully put his rival into place. “You’d best be taking that up with him, yourself. For now, I must insist that you depart from the theater immediately. You’re disrupting my rehearsal.” He turned boldly, taking his life in his hands to put his back to an angry man with a sword. Yet Richardson did not lunge. Rather, he turned on a heel and strode from the theater with a whirl of his black velvet cape and the soft crunch of sawdust beneath his feet.

“Let’s resume places, then,” Lance ordered and the players scurried onto the stage. JC was left in the wings, watching as the tragic love scene unfolded before him. He happened to glance to the side and caught with his eye Nicholas, who stared at him unabashedly, with a curious look upon his face.

JC turned away, unwilling to strike any accord with this man he had labeled an enemy.

**

It was nearly a week before Nicholas showed his face in the theater again. As much as JC hoped they may, things did not return to normal. There was strife in his relationship with Lance, and as yet he could not find more love for the man, nor could he find words to put onto paper.

It tore at his heart, for he knew that the words were there, yet they would not come out in any logical order. Rather, he was a mess of half-formed thoughts and jumbled ideas, without plot or rhyme to make them understandable.

“It is as if I have dried up, a grape in the sun left to become nothing more than a shriveled raisin, unrecognizable as the beautiful fruit it once was,” JC lamented to Lance, who pushed vegetables around his bowl of stew without looking upward. JC frowned. “Did you hear me? I am the composer with no notes, the dancer with no steps. Aye, for a poet without words is the most miserable beast.” He dropped his head to the table and banged several times, hoping to crack the shell that had formed around his creativity and release the ideas trapped inside.

“Stop that,” Lance replied as his wine sloshed about over the rim of the cup to drench the wooden planks of the table. JC lifted his head, attempting a smile.

“Come to bed with me,” he begged. “Be my muse, my inspiration. Bring forth my words.”

Lance shoved away his bowl of stew, unfinished. “I wish that I could. You know that. But I cannot tonight,” he apologized quite sincerely, rising from his chair. He stopped in front of JC’s chair and pressed a kiss to his forehead where it was red from the banging. “I’m sure the words will come to you. I must go to Nicholas tonight, for I promised to bring him to the engagement party for Lord Marrymont’s daughter. He has never been to a royal engagement, can you believe that?”

“Why, yes, for I have not either,” JC snidely, though he did not truly want to go. Though he enjoyed the occasion for fine garments and shoes, he did not like the requisite manners and small talk at such events.

“Don’t do that,” Lance begged. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, please.” JC didn’t answer. “I will likely be bringing him here,” Lance said carefully, “afterwards, that is. You may stay, if you’d like.” He offered, not wanting to offend yet clearly not wanting JC to be there.

“No,” JC mumbled, rising from the chair, brushing away Lance’s hand. His week of pretending that nothing was wrong had come to a shattering halt. “I’ve writing to do anyway.”

“Good luck,” Lance called. “I love you,” he added, but JC did not turn, only reached for his cape from the hook by the door and stepped out into the dense fog. He recalled a night nearly a year before, when they had met for just such a dinner and Lance had begged for him to stay the night. JC had spent the night being worshipped by Lance’s hands, held up as example of all that was perfect about humanity. He had never thought that would end.

**

“Hey, you’re writing!” Justin proclaimed, bursting into JC’s loft a week later. Nicholas had been wooed, and rehearsals begun for the first scene of the comedy. JC had a role, but he had not yet looked at the pages left on his writing table. They sat now under his stool to balance its uneven legs.

“I am,” JC said, scribbling furiously over the parchment. Inspiration, it seemed, had not abandoned him after all.

“What’s the story?” Justin asked, trying to read over JC’s shoulder. JC stopped writing and folded the page. He turned and smiled at Justin.

“It’s the story of a man who finds his lover with another man. He kills them both and throws their bodies in the Thames,” JC said. “Then he lives to be an old miserable man, never loving again for his heart was broken once and he is thus unable to ever receive love, even when it is offered to him.”

“Oh, JC,” Justin breathed, leaning against the wall. “That’s so sad.” He brightened, instantly. “The crowds will love it! When will you be done?”

“Soon enough,” JC promised. “But if you would do me one small favor.”

“Anything,” Justin promised.

JC smiled. “Go and tell Lance of the story. Then report back to me what his reaction is. I want to hear from a third person, you see. To see if he’s being honest with me when we discuss it.”

Justin smiled. “Of course. I’ll speak to him at the close of rehearsal.” He smiled at JC and left him alone, so he could resume writing.

“Splendid,” JC thought with a grin, and dipped his quill into the ink once more.

**

For the duration of the rehearsals, JC endured the eternal heartbreak of watching his lover love another. It was, he found, a morbid curiosity that kept him watching Lance and Nick- as he had insisted upon being called. “We are all but friends, now, aren’t we?” he’d asked, and the others had nodded, traitorous bastards, all of them. JC dug his fingers into his palm, nails bitten to the quick, thankfully, for they would surely have pierced his own skin otherwise

Each night, JC would drag his feet along the crooked cobblestones alone, unable to face Lance and admit that he was not good enough. For Nick had been won, yet Lance still went to him, and JC knew in his heart that this was the way it henceforth would be.

Eventually, Lance came to him, climbing the ladder to his shaky loft at the top of the theater, catching JC in a moment between scenes, standing at the window. He gazed upon the rooftops of London, wishing he could be anywhere but there. Outside were all those other people, with lives and loves so much better than his.

“I have missed you,” Lance said, pressing a kiss to the back of JC’s shoulder when he did not turn. Lance’s hands on his arms made JC shiver like a leaf in the wind. “You have not come to me in eight days.”

“Yet, neither have you come to me,” JC replied, eyes still focused on the clouds beyond the window. Oh, to sail away on a cloud, to heaven where hearts were not to be broken. “What has this thing between us become?”

“I’m not sure.” Lance pulled at JC’s shoulder until he turned, hands coming to his face to caress gently on JC’s rough cheek. “I care for you so much, JC. You know this hurts me as much as it does you.”

JC closed his eyes, because he didn’t believe that, not for a moment. “We could have been poor,” he said. “Would it be so bad to be one of us, a penniless player?”

“It was never about the money,” Lance said, brushing aside a strand of JC’s hair that fell between their gazes. “I did this for you,” he pleaded.

And that, JC thought, was what broke his heart more than anything else about the entire situation. That Lance would think that this was what he wanted.

“Perhaps,” Lance began, yet he hesitated, unsure of whether or not to continue. “If you join us. It might not be so hard if you were a part of it too.”

The offer took JC by surprise, and even after the words took root in his head, he did not quite understand. “You want me to join you... and Nick?”

“Please, JC. Please.” Lance kissed him, then, fiercely, and JC kissed him back for even now, unsure of everything, he knew that he would never be able to resist Lance’s kisses. “I don’t like knowing that you are alone night after night, when I cannot be there beside you. Will you come home with me tonight?”

“With you. And with Nicholas?” At Lance’s nod, JC let out a long slow breath. “I will think about it.”

“Please do,” Lance said, tracing the curve of JC’s jaw with a gentle finger. “Have you looked over what he’s written?” he asked. “It is quite funny.”

JC glanced guiltily at his stool. “I’ll read it as soon as I have a moment. My muses, you know. They don’t give me much pause for pleasure reading.”

Lance nodded, stepping away. “I’ve distracted you too long, then. Until tonight.”

JC watched him go, wondering what lie ahead of him. Life was turning out to be more complex than any scene his mind might have ever imagined.

**

In candlelight, everything seemed less real than by the light of the sun. It was as if perhaps the whole deranged event was only a dream, for surely something so preposterous could only be the creation of a madman’s imagination. JC was clearly not sitting in the parlor of Lance’s home, sipping wine across from his lover and the man his lover took to bed.

Except that he was, and his legs fidgeted unwillingly, giving away his nerves.

“Relax,” Lance murmured, inching closer to JC on the sofa. “This will never work if you are nervous.”

“I’m trying to figure out how it will work regardless of my state of mind,” JC said. “Last time I checked fucking was an act best left to two people. It’s rather like chess in that regard, don’t you think?”

Nick laughed softly. “Justin swore that you were funny,” he said. JC raised an eyebrow, for he wasn’t intentionally being comical. That was Nick’s job, after all.

“Have you never thought of his before?” Lance asked, scooting close enough that he could begin to work on the ties at the neck of JC’s shirt. “The French even have a word for it- menage-a-trois.”

Leave it to the French, JC thought, as Lance’s hand slipped into his shirt, ruffling the dark hairs on his chest until he found a nipple and pressed it like a button. Oh, how that always made his blood run hot, and JC didn’t think it was quite fair that Lance was torturing him like this in front of Nick, who had yet to move from across the room.

“Nick says you’re beautiful,” Lance whispered into JC’s ear, breath hot against his scalp. “He wishes to see you bare.”

“What of my wishes?” JC asked, trying to be coy when his body was already strumming with energy. Nerves, and lust perhaps, all combined to make his heart race like a prized horse in his chest. “Perhaps I wish to see him.”

He turned his eyes to Nick, and if Nick had not heard, he clearly understood the look. He finished his wine with a long swallow and licked the red droplets off of his lips tantalizingly slowly. Standing, he seemed a giant in the room, dwarfing the furniture, towering about the mantle. He reached for the ties at the sides of his doublet and loosened them, sliding the garment over his head, letting it drape across the back of his abandoned chair. JC licked his lips as Nick loosened his sleeves and neck, letting his shirt follow, because wow. He had the body of a god and was marked like a heathen across his arms and chest.

“Tattoos,” he said. “My mother indentured me to a seaman when I was but twelve years old and sent me to America. I escaped my master and lived with the native people there for a time before securing return passage to England.” He touched the ink across his bicep, as if remembering old times.

JC had never seen anything like the drawings before, primitive marks in a band around his arm, and a sun on his shoulder. “Did it hurt?” he asked, wondering at the way the drawings did not smear as he traced them, yet moved freely as Nick flexed the muscles beneath them.

”Aye, though I confess to being a liquored up drunkard each time they came to me with a needle. There are more,” he added casually, winking at Lance over his shoulder. JC glanced back. Lance would have known this secret, then, and not told JC.

More, indeed, as Nick turned his wrist over to reveal a skull and crossbones etched across the delicate thin skin there, covering the bluish veins beneath his skin.

“You’re a pirate,” JC breathed, and Nick chuckled lowly.

“They were but the only ones who would take me back to my native land,” he said unashamed. “I took the mark to remind me of a time when I was a desperate man.”

He had lived through so many adventures, JC thought. Surely, then, his stories must be much more numerous that those JC could tell. JC had never been off the grand British isle, nay, outside of London proper. He shrunk away from Nick, feeling wholly inferior.

Lance was there, though, at his back to keep him from retreating more than a few steps. “There are more,” he whispered, arms securing JC in a tight embrace. “Do you want to see them?”

No, JC thought. He didn’t want to see them; he didn’t want Nick to be here at all. He wanted to be alone with Lance, the way it always had been. Yet, his eyes stayed focused on Nick as he peeled down his breeches and stockings, to stand before them in nothing but his own skin.

“See?” Lance said, coming around JC to stroke his hands down Nick’s legs, carefully tracing the tattoo of a strange sea creature. JC looked, because as long as his eyes were focused on the dark ink markings, they were not looking at the golden hairs on Nick’s chest, or the thick cock that hung between his legs.

JC felt Lance’s lips on his cheek and turned his head, hiding in the kiss because this was all so overwhelming, his eyes burning with the image of Nick’s naked body even whence closed. He wasn’t supposed to find Nick attractive, not when Lance was right there beside him, but it was all too much. For someone who wrote sonnets of lust and love, JC was finding that his own practical experience was left wanting.

Lance licked at JC’s mouth until he opened, and kissed him wetly until JC felt beautiful again. He was always calmed by kissing, and brought his hands to Lance’s shoulders, resting heavily, thumbs stroking at Lance’s neck. Lance held one hand on JC’s cheek, a gentle touch as they kissed.

As they parted to breathe, JC allowed his eyes to open and startled that Nick had come so near. Lance’s left hand was already moving on Nick’s body, his palm flat across the rise of muscle on Nick’s chest. Tentatively, JC reached out to touch too. Lance used the backs of his fingernails to rake across a nipple, making Nick’s eyes flutter shut. Not quite so bold, JC carefully traced the line in the middle of Nick’s torso, stopping at the navel, not daring to go lower. He kept his eyes on his fingers, wondering what would happen next. He was as alien to this mating ritual as a virgin on her wedding night.

Wet sounds brought his eyes up, and he watched as Lance and Nick kissed. There was something extraordinarily intimate about it, the slide of lips and tongue together. JC had never watched two people kiss before, not from such a close vantage point. It was fascinating, and arousing. He reached between his legs to adjust his throbbing prick, only to have a strong hand clasp around his wrist.

“Let me,” Nick said, and JC did, frozen in place as Nick untied the fastenings of his clothes and peeled them from his body. From the corner of his eye, JC watched as Lance undressed himself, leaving his clothes folded across a table in the corner. Three piles, then, JC thought, of the outer layers of three men. Yet in the middle of the room, they were one.

“You’re beautiful,” Nick said, bringing JC’s attention back to the man on his knees. JC blushed at the compliment, but Nick was persistent in his praises. “Aye, ‘tis true. I have begged of Lance to let me bed you for weeks now, but he has been selfish and kept you all to himself.”

JC looked up at Lance, whose eyes shone darkly when they did meet his gaze. “I love him,” JC answered simply. Lance swallowed, throat bobbing violently. There was lust on his face as he watched his two lovers together for the first time.

“Aye, I know that you do. And I know that sharing him with me has been difficult for you.” Nick rose, stepping so close to JC that their skin did meld as one. “Let me make it easier for you,” he begged.

JC was not surprised when Nick’s lips touched his, nor was he surprised when he kissed back. The night had gone so far beyond his expectations that there was nothing left that could surprise him. When Lance made a chortled sound and came to them, JC turned his head to kiss him, too, while Nick left a wet trail of kisses down his neck, making him arch back, hungry for more.

“You taste of him,” Lance said, and left JC wanting while his lips kissed at Nick’s. “And you, of JC.”

Nick smiled then, and kissed Lance again, hands weaving in and around the maze of arms to rub tenderly at JC’s shoulder blade, keeping him from falling backward when kisses were once again shared.

JC cursed as someone touched his cock, swollen and erect from the sensuality that filled the room. Looking down, it was Nick, which surprised him because he liked it, liked it more than he should have, and his hips thrust forward into the warm cavern Nick created with his fist.

“We should go upstairs,” Lance suggested, voice breathless and hoarse. JC did not think he would be able to climb the stairs, but Nick pushed him ahead, between the two as they stepped up to Lance’s luxurious bedroom, onto the bed, behind the pulled drapes, into a world of their own.

Tangled together that way it was easy to kiss the nearest mouth, caress the nearest stretch of skin. It was warm, humid with breath and sweat, like a summer’s eve broken into the cold spring season. JC was rolled onto his back and went willingly, senses on overload as four hands touched his body, making him feel things that were never before possible.

“Do you see?” Lance asked, drawing up JC’s leg so he could slip in between them. Nick settled behind JC’s back, so he was held as if in a hammock between the two men. “Do you see now?”

No, JC thought, he didn’t, because this felt wonderful but it wasn’t perfect because it wasn’t a connection. Oh, he was turning into a woman expecting hearts and flowers with his fucking, but it didn’t matter. Not at all. Or rather, he didn’t need those things now, not when Lance’s hands touched at his aching cock, slick with the oil Lance always kept in his night table. JC’s mind spun like a weathervane in a storm, unable to choose a direction.

Nick bent his head for a kiss, and JC obliged, nibbling on Nick’s soft sweet lips. He tasted of honey and wine, delicious as Eden’s forbidden fruit.

His attention was torn, and JC’s body nearly came off just from the hands across him. His body strummed with energy, yet oddly relaxed, languid in the arms of his lovers. Lance’s hands were magical, moving quickly along JC’s cock, squeezing with each thrust just the way JC liked. When he paused, JC nearly whimpered, but Lance’s hands were only moving on to other things, and soon he’d pressed one inside of JC’s ass, sending shivers of all through his body.

“Are you ready?” Lance asked, but he was looking over JC’s head when he spoke. JC looked up, to see Nick’s face cast in shadows, nodding to JC. He felt invisible, yet the center of this small word, a sun about to explode in a shower of light. When Lance’s hard cock nudged inside of him, JC smiled, for this was always his favorite part, the pain that burst into pleasure. He braced for it, trying to relax. Nick’s hand wandered to JC’s abandoned cock and helped the cause.

Lance began to thrust, sitting up on his knees, pulling at JC’s legs until they were bent nearly back to his shoulders. JC reached for Lance’s legs, hands ruffling the coarse hairs on his thighs. Lance looked down at him with dark glistening eyes, and JC closed his own eyes because it was just too much. He threw his head back into Nick’s shoulder and came in streams up onto his chest, coating Nick’s hand, mind reeling out of control at all of the wonder of it all.

Sated, he slumped bonelessly into the bed, sinking into the mattress as Lance slid out of him and reached for Nick. They fell beside him on the bed, Lance covering Nick’s body with his own. With hooded eyes, JC watched as they used their hands to bring each other off, mouths fused in passionate kisses. Their blonde heads melded together beautifully, JC thought, and their knew each other’s bodies so well that a soft kiss on the shoulder or gentle suction on the wrist was enough to elicit quiet moans.

They came off nearly simultaneously, kissing throughout the shakes of pleasure. Lance slid off of Nick, between the two men. JC kissed him when the mouth was offered, but it felt empty.

He knew, then, that this was not the solution. There was no way to fix what he had once held with Lance. Not when Lance curled into another man’s arms and slept soundly there.

**

JC wrapped his sonnets in a piece of burgundy ribbon and presented them to Lance late one weekend the week before the play opened. Lance’s face twisted miserably as he took the package.

“I never meant for this to happen. I’m so sorry.”

Carefully, JC pressed a kiss to Lance’s brow, for though his own heart ached at the finality of the moment, he knew Lance suffered too. What they had between them had been good and whole. It just hadn’t been enough.

“Be happy,” he ordered gently, and Lance nodded. “Be happy with him, for I don’t think I could bear to see you every day if you are to be miserable.”

Lance chuckled a bit, laughing instead of crying. “I’ll try. But you too. Be happy JC. Be happier than I could ever have made you.”

JC offered a half smile, the best he could muster. When he walked away, he did not cry, nor did he laugh. He felt empty inside, for what was to replace love when it was lost?

**

The opening day of a play always made JC’s stomach twist in anticipation. He loved to perform, to lose himself in character. Though he had not presented a comedy in some years, he felt comfortable with the role Nick had created for him, a pirate sent to reclaim his long lost son, only to find the babe he’d left in the care of a wealthy family years earlier was a daughter.

“The crowd is not as full as Lance had anticipated,” Joey said from behind him, peering over JC’s shoulder through the slit between curtain panels. Indeed, the yard was jammed full but the upper level seating was only about half filled. “Perhaps the people are not as inclined to view a comedy.”

JC smiled at that. “You only say that to make me feel better,” he said, though it had worked.

“Then maybe it’s the threat of rain,” Joey countered, for the skies were an ominous shade of gray. Oh, when would they build theaters with roofs, JC wondered.

“That must be it,” he smiled, stepping away from the curtains, bumping Joey out of his way as he backed up. Joey whacked JC’s bottom in jest and ran, ducking back to find a seamstress to repair a dangling button on his sleeve.

The play was a moderate success, though reviews were not nearly as rave as those for JC’s last commentary with its biting political message. Instead, there was talk of Nicholas Carter as the up-and-coming master, which JC could accept easily. The boy had skill, and he was sure that if Lance was able to keep him on with the Black Lion Company, they would someday share the billing as authors.

It did not bother him greatly, JC supposed, for he was writing furiously, too preoccupied with the world of his stories to focus on events in the world around him. He had finished the story of the murderous lover, and though both Nick and Lance had seemed ill-at-ease when first presented with the work, they had seen its crowd appeal as clearly as Justin had on that first day of writing, and agreed it would be the next play produced at the Black Lion.

One day, as JC stretched across the first rows of seating to watch Justin practice his lines as the offended lover, Joey came to sit beside him. Amicably, JC pulled down his feet so they could sit close enough together to chat.

“He is doing well, don’t you think?” Joey nodded at the stage, where Justin gave an eloquent soliloquy. JC nodded. Justin was a fine young actor, and would likely go off to found a troupe of his own when he reached the appropriate age. Joey was a steadfast fixture in the Black Lion players and it was unlikely young Justin would ever replace him as the lead.

“He is perfect in this role. I worried, for he has played the maiden for so long.” Young Justin, growing older and wiser. On the stage, Chris gave some direction, pulling Justin to the side so that the audience would have a better view of his dramatic hand gestures.

“I like this play,” Joey noted, smiling at JC, attention focused off of the stage. “We are much more suited for this kind of tragedy.”

JC nodded, returning the smile. Joey always had a way of making people feel better. “It is good to see my works on stage again.”

“It is good to see you smiling again,” Joey noted. JC looked away. They had not made known their romance intently, but neither JC nor Lance doubted that their fellow players knew of the tryst. “He is not worth your frowns.”

JC smiled at him. “He is, but that is kind of you to say. Do not think ill of him.”

“If you wish,” Joey said. He rubbed his hands together briskly. “I think it’s time to get Justin off of the stage before he falls in love with the sound of his own voice.”

JC laughed. “I fear it is too late, but please, try to intervene.” Joey left him to the seats and his script, curled into a spyglass in his fist.

**

JC realized during those long days of rehearsal how absent he’d been in the lives of his friends. Locked away in his lofty writing studio, he’d neglected those closest to him, devoting all of his time and attention to his lover. Without Lance to cloud his vision, JC saw his friends shining more brightly than ever before. It was a comfort to him, in those first lonely days, to have such dynamic characters upon which he could focus his attention.

Justin was glowing in his leading role, taking to the stage in a way JC had never seen before. When he spoke, the entire audience went still, attention focused on the young man who owned the stage in every scene. He would, JC knew, be the source of inspiration for many characters to come, for he walked with the confidence of a man twice his age, not at all seeming the son of a widow from the wrong side of the river.

He also had a sweetheart, a young girl with blonde hair and amber brown eyes who hung outside the theater door in the evening, hoping to be invited in to watch rehearsals. She glowed when she saw Justin, and blushed when he kissed her. Their young love made JC smile, for neither had known heartbreak before. He hoped they never would.

Throughout the rehearsals, Chris would lead this with the cagey eye of a stage director, though he claimed no more billing than actor. He was never one to flaunt his talents, and JC saw this more and more as he focused on the process of creating the play. From costuming to delivery of lines, Chris had a hand in every bit of the production. Much of the work that JC assumed fell into Lance’s realm of responsibility was actually carried out by Chris, who seemed to still run the theater despite no longer claiming ownership. He knew his lines by the very first day, and spent the rest of the time helping the others along. He laughed when it was needed, supported the weary after days of swordfights and dances, and smiled to show everyone that this was, indeed, the greatest job in the world.

And then, there was Joey. While Lance and Nick still lurked in the background, Joey stayed in the light with JC, a pillar of strength to him in those awful weeks of watching the lustful glances between Nick and Lance in the wings. Nick had stayed on, and even begun speaking of a grand joint production between the Savoy and the Black Lion, for he was utterly faithful to his cross-town players, often spending mornings at the Black Lion and afternoons at the Savoy. JC did not pretend that this upset him, for it meant only half a day of watching Lance and his new love.

But Joey. As JC watched from the steps of the stage, Joey thrust his sword and danced backward to avoid Justin’s return. Joey was strong, as the muscles of his legs flexed easily in his choreographed fight across the stage. He wore a green jacket, which flattered his dark looks. JC smiled at him when he paused, out of breath, and passed a beaker of water so that the actors might refresh themselves before beginning again.

“Will you be coming for a pint later on?” he asked, waiting for Joey to finished drinking.

Joey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the empty beaker to JC. “Aye, and the boy as well, for his lady’s father insists she be home before dark and he is miserable at the thought of it.”

“I should think not,” Justin said, grabbing the empty cup from JC’s hands and scowling when he found it empty. “Though I suppose you would know a thing or two of an empty bed, would you not?”

Joey winced painfully. They all knew his family had been pressuring him for marriage for over a year. “Whence a lady strikes my fancy for more than an evening, perhaps I will consider. Until then, I leave my heart in the hands of the women at the Damon’s Tavern.” They all snickered at the thought of the whores who worked there, for they were reputed to be the loveliest and most giving in the city.

“Well, I am up for a drink, since I am cursed to spend the long hours from sun set to rise alone, without my love. You fools are but poor substitute, but I will take thee.” Justin smiled and resumed his stance for fighting. “Come Joseph, fight with me, and perhaps if you win, I will buy you a drink.”

“I will never win, fool, for it is written the victory is yours.” Joey glanced at JC. “Care to rewrite the scene?”

JC laughed, an unfamiliar feeling but a good one, nonetheless. “Alas, not for the price of a drink. Prepare, gentlemen,” he called, stepping away. “Begin!”

**

Nick didn’t come to the theater for five days, and Lance was pacing back and forth until Chris began to worry he would wear a path in the stage.

“Go find him,” he said, but Lance shook his head.

“I wouldn’t know where to look. He’s always been rather secretive about his family.” He resumed his pacing, back and forth across the stage between the balcony pillars. “He’s probably dead in the river somewhere.”

JC winced, for reality was cutting a bit close to fiction. “What about the Savoy men? Would they know?”

Grimly, Lance shook his head. “I’ve been and asked, without success. One of them, an Irishman named Alex, claims he lives near the water, but could not even tell me the neighborhood.”

“Why don’t we look for him?” Justin suggested. “Get those men from the Savoy, spread out and search the riverbanks. Perhaps someone would know.”

It was agreed, and Justin volunteered to go to the Savoy to gather Nick’s friends from his other company. It was hoped that they would not hold ill will against the players at the Black Lion and band together for the sake of a friend.

“You do not have to do this,” Lance said to JC, tugging him aside by the sleeve. His face was creased with concern, and it touched JC that Lance was thinking of him in such a time.

“Hush,” he said, pulling Lance into a hug. It felt good, familiar, but like an old friend or brother. Perhaps time had passed enough to make this less awkward, or perhaps he had never truly loved Lance the way his heart imagined. Either way, he was truly worried about Nick and hoped that he wasn’t dead in the river. When he said this, Lance smiled a bit, and thanked him for being such a good man.

‘I’m not so good,” JC muttered. “I killed you in a play.”

“I know,” Lance smiled. “But a worse man would have killed me in reality. I much prefer your way.”

“As do I,” JC answered, hugging Lance again. “Come, let’s find that boy and make him feel terrible about worrying us so.”

**

JC did not truly know what to be looking for, so he wandered the banks of Southwark, hoping that Nick might run into his path.

A dumb thought, until a boy bumped into his back and kept going, a towheaded lad that looked to be a miniature version of Nick. JC balked, wondering when Lady Luck had suddenly descended upon him. Then, he ran.

“Wait,” he called. “You there, boy, wait!” But the boy kept running, ducking down an alley and disappearing.

JC stood at the end of the alley, staring at the two closed doors and wall at the end. He sighed. “I’m looking for Nicholas Carter,” he called. “Are you related to him?”

The door on the left cracked open, not even wide enough for JC to see more than darkness beyond. “Who asks?”

“I’m a friend. From the theater. We worry for him, since he has been missing for days. Do you know where he is?” JC stepped tentatively into the alley, which stank of waste and rotting vegetables.

The door opened a bit more, and the boy’s head came into view. He was a mirror image of Nick, only shrunken like an elf. “Nick’s my brother,” he said. “He’s not here.”

JC smiled at him and moved a bit closer. “Do you know where I might find him?”

“Right here,” a voice called over his shoulder, and JC turned to see Nick, looked peaked and haggard, standing in a patch of sunlight at the other end of the alley. A sense of relief washed over him, for Lance, and he realized a bit, for himself. Like it or not, Nick had become a fixture in their playhouse, and there would be an empty place were he to leave.

“We’ll at least you’re not floating face down in the river,” JC joked, smiling at Nick, who only scowled and walked past JC.

“Only when you do the writing,” he grumbled, but held the door open for JC, waving him inside. JC went, slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dark interior.

“Go fetch some water for your sister,” Nick said to the boy, who scowled.

“How come I’ve gotta run her errands?”

“Because I’m still big enough to tan your hide if you don’t!” Nick growled. JC watched, afraid Nick might hit the boy, but the he danced out of his brother’s path with the same grace that Nick had on stage, calling over his shoulder that Nick was a slave driver.

“My brother,” Nick said sheepishly, sitting at a simple wooden table, kicking a chair out for JC. Someone had tried to make it homey by adding a pitcher of colorful red flowers to the center. JC appreciated those touches. “He’s found a company willing to pay him two sovereigns to pass out fliers and suddenly he’s as rich as the prince.”

JC smiled. “He looks just like you.”

“Aye, 'tis his curse.” Nick smiled. “I admit you were the last man I expected to see on my doorstep.”

“We’ve been looking for you.” Someone shouted foully outside, making JC cringe. “Lance was worried.” He paused. “We all were.”

Nick leaned back in his chair. JC glanced between his legs, remembering, but quickly looked away. He had his chance for that, and had walked away. He did not regret it. “My sister got married two days ago,” he said. “I’ve been busy helping to set up her house.”

JC relaxed, for at least there was no severe threat. “You should have told us. We would have attended. Justin fancies his singing voice, he would have shared a hymn, and Chris is quite good with the guitar. I hope you didn’t pay for musicians.”

Nick grimaced and rolled his shoulders, clearly tense. “There were no musicians. It was a, ah. rushed occasion.”

JC raised an eyebrow. Oh. There was only one reason why a lady would marry in a hurry. “Still, you should have told us.”

Nick nodded, dropping his chair forward to rest on four legs again with a soft ‘thud’. “It’s not something that I’m particularly proud of. Though I’m sorry you worried.”

JC smiled at him. “At least you are well. Lance would have died were you to really be in the river. I fear he would suspect me no matter how strong my alibi.”

“He would have right, given your most recent work.” Nick smiled at him, though. “It is a good play. Original, and terribly sad. I could never write such a piece.”

“You have other skills,” JC said graciously, then blushed, because it sounded so flirtatious that Nick grinned widely. “I mean, in comedy.”

“Aye, of course you did.” Nick stood, brushing off the seat of his breeches. “I suppose I should return with you, to reassure the men you are no murderer.”

“Alas, I am only a rogue playwright.” JC smiled. “I am truly glad that you are not dead,” he said once more.

“As am I,” Nick chuckled. “And grateful, that you care enough to care at all. It is more than expected, for I took something dear away from you.”

JC stood as well, thinking about Lance. It had been more than two months since they’d all three lain together, though it seemed it could have been a lifetime. “Things are as they were meant to be,” he proclaimed. “The fates are cruel at times but we must trust that they are working with purpose. I hold no ill will toward you, only toward circumstances beyond our control.”

Nick smiled at him. “Such a poet,” he laughed. “Come, let us walk before the sun sets and the urchins come out of the dark.”

Together, they left the dark house and walked through the afternoon sun, talking like acquaintances that were not yet friends, but someday might be.

**

Nick and JC were the first back to the theater, though Lance and Justin arrived not long after. Several unfamiliar faces filled in as the evening passed, players from the Savoy Company who were much relieved to see Nick safe. Last to arrive at the impromptu party were Chris and Joey, who stumbled in with tales of pickpockets who picked the wrong targets and left with more bruises than coins.

They flowed from the theater to the tavern, where the ale poured copiously into waiting cups. There was music, there, and dance. JC was not celebrating though. No, he sat at a table with his cup, watching Nick and Lance. They were not participating in the festivities but sitting together in a dark corner, staring at each other adoringly.

Chris and Joey flanked JC, suddenly, sitting on the bench beside him. “They certainly are besotted with each other,” Chris said, pouring more drink into JC’s empty cup. “You’ve done well today,” he said, when JC tried to stop him. “Drink.”

JC swallowed with a long gulp, letting the dark liquor burn down to his belly. “I’ve done no more than any man would.”

Joey wrapped an arm about JC’s shoulder and squeezed affectionately. “Any good man, which is what you are.”

Chris started to say something else, but there was a crash across the room and Justin’s voice called out “I’m fine!” Chris rolled his eyes.

“I’d best tend to the boy,” he said, darting off between toppled chairs to pull Justin’s drunken body from the floor.

Joey smiled at JC. “Have you room for a boarder tonight? My mother’s family is visiting from Dover, and there’s scarcely a scrap of floor to sleep on with all the company.”

JC smiled. “You’re welcome to my floor,” he offered, “or my bed if you do not mind sharing.”

Joey squeezed his shoulders again, arm warm on JC’s back. “See? You are a good man.”

JC smiled at him and watched as Justin began to dance upon a table, singing bawdy pub songs to entertain them all.

**

JC awoke the next morning at the sounds of the birds. They lived in the church steeple down the lane and brought him songs at the morning light each day. Opening his eyes, JC was greeted with Joey’s sleeping face. There had been rain as they ran back from the tavern, and Joey’s hair was still slightly damp, falling in front of his eyes. Carefully, JC lifted it back away from his face.

Joey had beautifully smooth skin, hidden beneath a dark beard on his jaw. JC brought his hand back to the bed between their bodies, just close to Joey’s. He rubbed his pinky finger back and forth a little bit, tracing the lines on Joey’s thumb.

There was a soft smacking sound, and Joey opened his eyes, licking his lips. “Good morrow,” he whispered, and JC smiled.

“Good morning.” His voice was only a wisp of sound, the first words the day. Joey smiled at him and JC felt warm inside. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmmm.” Joey blinked, closing his eyes again. “I think I’m still dreaming.”

“Yeah?” Smiling too, JC poked at him a bit. “Why?”

“Because I’m in your bed,” Joey replied, though he kept his eyes closed. “That can only be a dream, for when have you looked upon me like that when we were awake?”

JC’s stomach tumbled about in his belly. “I don’t understand.”

“Aye, that is the source of the dilemma. Go back to sleep, so that I can dream more.” Joey slid closer on the bed until JC felt the warmth of his body under the covers.

Tentatively, JC reached out on jostled Joey’s shoulder. “Wake up,” he ordered, voice still scratchy. Outside, the streets were coming alive with chattering children and scolding mothers. The noise made it hard to think. “Look at me.”

Slowly, Joey opened his eyes. There was fear there, though for what JC could not be sure. “I am not dreaming?” Joey asked.

JC shook his head slowly. “Though perhaps I am, for I never imagined that you. You wanted to be here, with me?”

Slowly, Joey nodded, sliding his hand so that it covered JC’s. He folded his fingers until they fell between JC’s like threads on a loom. His fingertips were cold, but warmed in JC’s touch. “You were with Lance. Then, your heart was broken.”

“It was,” JC admitted. “Though, perhaps, not irreparable.”

“Perhaps I could help,” Joey offered. “Will you think about it?”

JC smiled at him. “Will you kiss me?” For it had been weeks, and his lips needed to be kissed. They ached for it, tingling with the need, and though he could have found anyone to satisfy the craving, it was Joey who was here and smiling becomingly. That seemed right, he thought, and rolled forward to press their lips together.

It was beautifully, JC thought. He did not feel beautiful, but the kiss was beautiful, because Joey closed his eyes and breathed softly on JC’s cheek. He opened his lips quickly and used his tongue to cleverly tease JC to moans and soft sighs.

When he slid back to his side of the bed, Joey was watching him with open eyes. “Do not pretend to care,” he warned.

“No,” JC whispered. He would never do that, for it had broken his heart once. “I did not think I would love again.”

“I cannot promise not to hurt you,” Joey said. JC’s heart fell, though he knew it to be true. “But I can swear an oath that as long as we are together, I will not look elsewhere.”

It was true, JC realized. For Joey was loyal more than anything else, and loving and perfect. His heart swelled to think of Joey, this tall handsome man, wanting him. “I promise the same,” he said.

It was sudden, but it had been building for a long time. When they kissed again, it was to seal the deal, and this time, they did not part for a long, long while.

**

JC’s play about the betrayed lover proved so popular that it was called to Greenwich to be acted for the king, much to the surprise of the players themselves. Joey was nervous backstage, pacing around.

“It is strange,” JC said, fiddling with his hat, “that you are to play the man who broke our hero’s heart.”

“Why is that strange?” Joey asked. Justin was gargling with salt water, a most unpleasant sound. JC cringed, stepping away. Joey followed.

“Because.” JC put his hands on Joey’s chest, loving the flex of muscle beneath his jacket, “in the real world you are the one who healed it.”

Joey smiled down at him, and kissed him deeply. JC could have kissed Joey all day, but the call came for places, and they broke apart, ready to begin.

END


End file.
